Odd Partners

by Mystery Writers of America

  He’d sat on the dugout bench and waited. It had grown dark and cold. Shadows began to creep over the field. That’s when he’d become scared, when his imagination ran wild and he was certain people were on the dark infield, zombies who came out at night and ate children left in the park by their parents. He’d been just about to get up and run when headlights lit up the dugout. A moment later, he’d heard his mother’s voice calling his name.

  “Eric? Eric?”

  He was so happy she’d come that he forgot to be upset at her for being late.

  “Do you want to know where I’m going?” Applebaum asked the young boy, thinking the least he could do was entertain the lad, seeing as it appeared they were the only two awake on the entire plane.

  The boy nodded.

  “To a funeral, I’m afraid. I know it isn’t pleasant to think about, but there it is. We have to do these things sometimes in life—the unpleasant things.” Another thought came to him and Applebaum said, “Do you know what a funeral is?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “No. No, of course not. Why would you? Well, a funeral is held to honor someone who has passed away. It’s a ceremony. You don’t understand a word I’m talking about, do you?”

  The boy shook his head and gave Applebaum a blank expression.

  “Do you talk?” Applebaum finally asked.

  The boy shook his head.

  “No, no, of course you don’t. Is that because you don’t want to, or because you can’t?”

  The boy took a moment, then shrugged.

  “Of course you couldn’t very well answer a question like that now, could you? Not if you can’t talk. No, of course not. Well, since we’re both awake, and you seem intent on staring at me, I’ll just go ahead and tell you my story. Would you like me to tell you a story?”

  The kid nodded.

  “You would?” Applebaum said, surprised. “Well, that’s something anyway. Kids nowadays don’t like to hear stories anymore. Not from an old man like me. When I go to visit my grandchildren, they’re always on their phones or their computers. They don’t want stories, and they don’t want to play. Kids don’t get outside and play anymore. You’re all cooped up inside, playing on computers and phones. That’s why we have obesity in this country. Did you know that? No. No, of course you don’t. Kids are obese because they don’t get outside and play games like baseball anymore. You know why all the baseball players in the major leagues are from South America nowadays?”

  The kid shook his head.

  “Because kids in South America can’t afford computers and phones, not like here in the United States, so they go outside and play. Ironic, isn’t it? I mean, here we invented the game, and American kids don’t even play it anymore.” Applebaum thought of something. “Would you like me to tell you a story about baseball?”

  The kid didn’t respond.

  Applebaum looked forward, staring at the back of the seat in front of him. “The grandest game ever played, baseball,” he said. “When I was a boy—a bit older than you, but still just a boy, mind you—that’s what I wanted to be. I wanted to be a baseball player. That was every boy’s dream back then. We didn’t sit inside. We didn’t even have computers when I was a boy, or phones for that matter. So we had to interact with one another, and play games like baseball, or come up with games of our own. We’d get together Saturdays and every day in the summer and we’d pick teams for games like three flies up.”

  Applebaum smiled at the recollection. “I know I’m not much to look at now, not with gray hair and this potbelly. Hell, I can’t even play nine holes of golf, not anymore. My legs just won’t hold me up for that long. But back when I was a boy, not much older than you, I was one of the best baseball players, and that was saying something back then, because back then everyone played. And I mean everyone. But you see, what we had then was coaching. We didn’t just play. We were coached on how to play by the best darn baseball coach out there. And you see—”

  Applebaum turned back to the seat, but the overhead light had gone out and the seat was dark. He could no longer see the child.

  Now, that was the damnedest thing.

  The boy certainly couldn’t have reached the light. He looked up and down the aisle, curious as to whether the flight attendant had come and turned it out for him.

  “Don’t stop now.”

  Applebaum turned to his right. A young man sat in the window seat, the seat between them empty. His overhead light spotted him like an actor on a darkened stage. “Seems like you were just getting to the good part.”

  Applebaum considered him. The young man looked to be in his early twenties, about the age Applebaum had started as a salesman. He wore a sport coat with patches on the elbows, a bit threadbare, and a thin tie, the kind of coat and tie Applebaum had worn.

  “What’s that?” Applebaum said, confused.

  “The story you were telling, seems like you were just getting to the good part.”

  “You like baseball?”

  “I love baseball. That was my favorite sport growing up.”

  “You don’t say? It was mine, too.”

  “So tell me about this coach. Chuck, was it?” the young man said.

  “That’s right,” Applebaum said, though he couldn’t recall having said Chuck’s name out loud, but then he must have, mustn’t he? Damn memory. He must have been telling the young boy and this young man had been eavesdropping. “Chuck McGuigan,” he said. “Best baseball coach a young man could have.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “Oh, we had a heck of a team, too, even if it was only grammar school. We had real talent.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Applebaum felt himself getting excited again. “I do say. Okay. I’ll tell you the story of Roffice.”

  “Roffice? What’s Roffice?”

  “Just listen. You see, it was the championship game. Danny O’Leary started at shortstop—which he did when he wasn’t pitching. He and Billy Healy traded off those same positions, you see? Dan Burri started at catcher, and Chuck’s son, Matty, he started at first because he was a lefty, and Chuck was old school, you know? If you were a lefty you played first or the outfield and that was that.”

  “And let me guess. You played second base?”

  “That’s right. How did you know?”

  “I was a second baseman myself. You look like a second baseman.”

  “Tough position,” Applebaum said. “You had to be good going to your left and your right.”

  “And quick enough to pivot and turn the double play,” the young man said, as if reading his mind. “Did you relay pitching signals to the outfielders?’

  Now, that was surprising. Not many people knew that small but important detail of the game. “You bet we did. We’d make a fist if the pitch was a fastball, and we’d wiggle our fingers if it was a breaking pitch.”

  “You did that?”

  “Every pitch,” Applebaum said. “Chuck taught us that. We were well ahead of our time, I’ll tell you that.”

  “Chuck was a good coach, wasn’t he?”

  “Chuck was the best. He’d been a good enough ballplayer to get drafted by the Cincinnati Reds.”

  “No kidding?”

  “He was a student of the game, knew it inside and out. And he was built like a brick wall, strong as an ox and fast as a gazelle. He’d drop and do twenty-five pushups and pop right back up, not even breathing heavy. He’d have played pro ball, but his father wanted more money than the Reds were willing to pay. Back then they didn’t pay in the millions like they do now. So his father made the practical decision, and Chuck became an accountant.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Not for us kids. If he was disappointed, he kept it to himself.”

  “I interrupted you. I think you were going to tell me about
Roffice and the championship game.”

  “Was I?”

  “I think you were just about to.”

  Applebaum looked about. He couldn’t remember.

  “I think you were going to tell me about the infield fly rule,” the young man said. “About how you won the championship game because of the infield fly rule.”

  Applebaum’s eyes lit up at the memory. “Do you know the infield fly rule? I mean, really know it?”

  “Well, I—”

  “The infield fly rule won us the eighth grade championship.”

  “No kidding.”

  Applebaum paused. Sandy had always told him not to talk too much, not to be one of those people who bored everyone with stories. “Would you like to hear the story?”

  “I certainly would, I mean, if you’re not too tired.”

  Applebaum smiled at that. Why, when he’d been that young man’s age he could fly all night, make visits to his clients, then fly home without shutting his eyes. And the next day he’d be at work at 7 A.M. sharp.

  “Okay. This was 1953. We were playing at a ballfield called Washington Park—”

  “I know it,” the young man said.

  Applebaum perked up at this. “You do?”

  “Sure. That’s the field behind Burlingame High School with the wooden grandstand and bleachers and the sunken dugouts.”

  “It was like playing in one of the old ballparks—like Wrigley Field in Chicago, because there was ivy on the outfield fences.”

  “I remember,” the young man said.

  “Well, the team was St. Robert and they were unbeaten, just like us. The score was 1–0 in the bottom of the seventh—”

  “The final inning for grammar school games,” the young man said.

  “That’s right. And St. Robert, they had this one kid. T. J. Noonan. He threw nearly 80 miles an hour, and had a curveball that would drop off the table.”

  “Wow,” the young man said.

  “But we managed to eke out a run against him in the top of the seventh. So there we are, three outs from the championship. And then St. Robert manages to get two players on base, first and second, with no outs, and guess who’s on deck just waiting to hit?”

  “T. J. Noonan?”

  “That’s right. It meant that even if we got the next batter out, T.J. was coming up, and he could hit as well as he could pitch.”

  “Doesn’t sound promising.”

  “Sure didn’t feel like it, I’ll tell you that. So Billy Healy is on the mound, and he falls behind the batter, three balls and one strike. And there’s T.J., calling out to all of us that he’s coming up next.”

  “He was rattling you.”

  “He was trying.”

  “Sounds exciting.”

  “I’ll tell you, the place was going crazy. Well, Bill, he throws a strike and the batter pops the ball up in the infield to our shortstop, Danny O.”

  “Did he catch it?”

  “Don’t rush me. This is the good part. You see, Danny starts yelling, ‘Roffice! Roffice!’ ”

  “Roffice?”

  “That’s right. It was Chuck’s acronym, to help us remember the infield fly rule. R stands for runners. There have to be runners on first and second or first, second, and third with zero or one out.”

  “What are the two Fs for—fair fly ball?”

  “Exactly. A fair fly, in the infield.”

  “That’s the I.”

  “Which the player can catch with reasonable effort.”

  “The C and the E,” the young man said.

  “Here’s the thing,” Applebaum said. “Most grown men don’t know the rule, let alone eighth grade boys. But we did. See the key is: The batter is automatically out, whether the infielder catches the pop-up or not.”

  “That’s the first out. With T.J. still coming up.”

  Applebaum shook his head. “That’s what everyone thought. But Danny O, he gets under the ball and catches it, then he lets the ball drop at his feet.”

  “He dropped it?”

  “He sure did,” Applebaum said, smiling. “And as Chuck liked to say, ‘That’s when the circus comes to town, boys!’ ”

  “What happened?”

  “The runner on first takes off for second, so the runner on second takes off for third because they’re both thinking they have to run because Danny dropped the ball.”

  “But the batter is out,” the young man said.

  “Exactly. So the runners don’t have to run. And that’s when Danny O picks up the ball and tags the runner who has left second.”

  “The second out of the inning.”

  “And then he fires the ball to me, and I tag the runner sprinting from first to second.”

  “Triple play,” the young man said. “And T.J. never gets to come up.”

  “We were running off the field cheering and backslapping one another, and the kids on the other team were crying and throwing their helmets. Their coaches gathered around the umpire protesting, and the parents in the stands are hollering, but there was nothing to be done. We’d played by the rules because Chuck taught us the rules. And we were the better team for it.”

  Applebaum smiled and looked to the young man, about to continue, but the light was no longer on, and the young man was no longer in the seat. He wondered where the young man could have gone, and why he hadn’t listened to the end of the story. The end was the best part of the story, and the young man had seemed so engaged. Well, isn’t that something? Listen to the whole story and then not find out the ending?

  Another thought came to him. “1953,” he said. He’d been twelve in 1953, which would have made Chuck at least forty. He’d had seven kids. Matty was his third. But Chuck couldn’t have been forty because…Applebaum did the math in his head. He couldn’t have been forty because if Chuck had been forty then, he would now be…one hundred and five? That wasn’t possible. Was it?

  Applebaum scratched his head.

  That couldn’t be possible.

  The plane suddenly bounced, his chest pressing against the restraint. They’d landed, but where? Applebaum was more confused than ever. There’d been no announcement by the stewardess or the pilot. And all the lights in the cabin remained out, all except for his.

  The plane taxied to a stop. Applebaum unbuckled his seatbelt. The lights came on. The boy who had been seated across the aisle now stood looking at him. Applebaum turned. The young man was there also, smiling.

  There was no one else on the plane.

  The young boy held out his hand. Applebaum took the boy’s hand, and it felt comforting. The young man put his hand on Applebaum’s shoulder and they walked to the front of the plane.

  Applebaum wasn’t afraid or confused. When he reached the door, there she stood, waiting for him.

  “Sandy?”

  She smiled at him. She looked radiant, as young and as beautiful as the day they’d gotten married.

  Behind her stood other familiar faces. Danny O’Leary and Billy Healy, Matty McGuigan and Dan Burri. His grammar school friends. The best friends he’d ever had. And Chuck. Chuck was there also, but the young Chuck, not the one who’d been in the casket in church that day. He wore a baseball uniform and a ball cap, a bat over his shoulder like he was on his way to play a game.

  Applebaum looked down at the young boy. “Who are you?”

  The boy handed Applebaum a cap and a glove with a ball in the webbing. His glove, when he’d just been a boy. And when Applebaum looked down, his blue pinstriped suit had transformed, and he was wearing a uniform.

  “Welcome home,” Sandy said, taking his hand. “Play your game. I don’t mind waiting.”

  Applebaum smiled at her, and when he took her hand, his uniform changed back into his blue suit and Sandy’s tie. He handed the glove and the ball
back to the boy.

  “I played that game already,” he said. “It’s just a story now. And we have some traveling to do.”

  NO 11 SQUATTER

  ADELE POLOMSKI

  The convenience store had a warm, cardboardy smell, and was crammed with things Minnie didn’t want. A whole aisle of sports drinks in nonsense colors. How could anyone drink that much? Her old bladder wasn’t what it used to be. Her skin wasn’t anything to brag about either. When was the last time it fit without sags or bags? At least she had her eyesight.

  From the register, the clerk, a man with an Indian accent, wearing a baggy gray cardigan, glowered at her. His face was as pockmarked as a pancake ready to flip. Minnie winced. She hoped she hadn’t mentioned it, but then why else would he look so angry?

  Minnie moved to the candy aisle, where a large bag of those foil-wrapped things that look like silver nipples sat open, spilling onto the floor, making a mess. She missed the store the way it had been when she was younger. Cheerful, more inviting, less cramped. She remembered coming here on Sundays with Sean for the newspaper and…

  A sensation of being watched burned off the fog in Minnie’s brain. She looked up into icy gray eyes, the whites marbled with red. A man across the aisle, staring. Blind terror tore through her. She’d seen that man before. A howl rushed up her throat and got stuck there. Her bladder, full of hot liquid, let go.

  “Minnie?” asked a black woman with apple cheeks and hair drawn into a ponytail of bright orange dreadlocks. Grace.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, her face a blend of concern and compassion.

  Minnie wanted to warn Grace. The man was dangerous. They needed to call the police, but Minnie remembered wetting herself and humiliation flared, drowning her terror. She felt a rush of blood to her face and neck.

  “Minnie? Tell me what’s wrong. Are you sick?”

  “I’ve peed my pants,” Minnie said miserably, but when she looked down, she didn’t see a dark stain. “You’ve got me in diapers!”

  “You won’t wear diapers. You insist on pads. What’s happened? Why did you look so frightened?”